


The Ballad of Reading Gaol

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Vanessa Mullen.</p><p>In prison, Vila looks back at his memories of Avon and Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Reading Gaol

**Author's Note:**

> Previously Published in Forbidden Star One.
> 
> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

It seems a long time ago now that I first saw the book. I found it in a cupboard on Xenon base, a real bound book, the sort that you almost never see. I suppose I was curious. After all, it might have been valuable, but anyway, I took it down and read it.

      Vila with a book. I suppose you think that's amusing too? Dayna certainly did, she told me so, after first of all expressing surprise that I could read at all. After that, I was determined to finish it, just to spite her. It must have belonged to Dorian, I realised that before I was half way through. I guess it had amused him to borrow the name of Dorian Gray from a story. 

      The rest of the book was mostly poems. They didn't all make sense at the time, but there was one that stuck in my mind. You could say that the wretched thing haunts me. You see, I know what it means now.

      The poem is Avon, and Avon is the poem.

      

Every day they let us out of our cells for an hour to get some exercise. The yard is small, and we aren't allowed to talk to one another, but I can see through the mesh fence to another yard. Where he is.

      

      

> I only knew what haunted thought
> 
>       Quickened his step and why
> 
>       He looked upon the garish day
> 
>       With such a wistful eye;
> 
>       The man had killed the thing he loved,
> 
>       And so he had to die.

      

It was inevitable really that they'd try Avon for Blake's death. They could have executed him a dozen times over for every crime in the book, but none would have had the same public impact, none would have dealt such a body blow to the credibility of the revolution as this.

      

      

> Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
> 
>       By each let this be heard,
> 
>       Some do it with a bitter look,
> 
>       Some with a flattering word.
> 
>       The coward does it with a kiss,
> 
>       The brave man with a sword!
> 
>       
> 
>       Some kill their love when they are young,
> 
>       And some when they are old;
> 
>       Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
> 
>       Some with the hands of gold:
> 
>       The kindest use a knife, because
> 
>       The dead so soon grow cold.

      

Avon killed Blake, but I killed Avon. Oh, I can see him as he walks, but he's already dead. I saw that in the courtroom, when I testified against him. He hadn't expected that. Even after Malodaar, Avon hadn't expected that I would bargain for my life by giving evidence to hang him. He never showed any reaction at all: neither by word nor look did he acknowledge me. That was how I knew I'd hurt him. He never looks at me now - I'm sure he knows I'm here on the other side of the fence, but he never allows himself to see me.

      

      

> Some love too little, some too long,
> 
>       Some sell and others buy;
> 
>       Some do the deed with many tears,
> 
>       And some without a sigh:
> 
>       For each man kills the thing he loves,
> 
>       Yet each man does not die.
> 
>       
> 
>       He does not die a death of shame
> 
>       On a day of dark disgrace,
> 
>       Nor have a noose about his neck,
> 
>       Nor a cloth upon his face,
> 
>       Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
> 
>       Into an empty space.
> 
>       

The flight deck was quiet as Blake walked silently down the steps to relieve Avon of the late night watch. In the dim light it seemed almost a sacrilege to make any sound. He could see Avon at his console, concentrating on the display before him, his back towards Blake, dark head bent over his work. Avon seemed intent yet relaxed, as though he found it easier to work alone with Zen than with the other human members of the crew.

      "Peaceful watch?" Blake asked quietly, almost reluctant to break the spell.

      "The occasional asteroid." Avon's fingers danced across the console's surface for a moment. "I've instructed Zen to raise the force wall automatically if the detectors register anything closer than one hundred spacials."

      "Thanks." That would simplify life for tonight at least. The force wall controls were one of life's minor aggravations. Having the main switch down by the couch was a liability in a combat situation. Some day, when he had the time, Blake was going to do some serious rewiring on the flight deck. 

      "I'm going to get a bite to eat," Avon said. "Can I get you anything?"

      "Coffee - white with three sugar. Might help me wake up a bit." Blake turned to check the controls, noting that the course heading and speed were unchanged from the previous watch. They would reach their destination in four and a half days at their current velocity. He called up a map of the planetary system on the main viewer and involved himself in a close study of it.

      "Blake." Avon reappeared with a beaker of hot coffee in one hand and a snack in the other.

       _Liberator_  chose that moment to lurch violently. Blake clutched at the console to avoid falling over. Avon's arms flew out as he tried to keep his balance. Blake's face and hair were abruptly deluged with hot coffee.

      "What the hell was that!" Blake snarled.

      "Asteroid impact," Avon replied succinctly.

      Coffee dripped down Blake's face onto his shirt. He wiped a sleeve across his face to remove the worst. "You might have programmed an audible warning," he said crossly.

      Avon glared at him. "So might you," he said pointedly.

      Abruptly Blake saw the ridiculous side of the situation. He could blame Avon for a lot of things, but even Avon couldn't produce an asteroid on demand just to annoy him. "All right," he apologised with moderate grace. "I over-reacted." He looked down ruefully at his shirt. "I must look a right mess."

      Avon smiled suddenly. "Oh, you do," he agreed cheerfully. He walked round and viewed Blake from the side. "Your hair's a bit less bouncy than usual, but I'm sure it will recover fast enough. Your shirt will need washing though, unless of course you happen to like coffee colour. Serves you right for dressing like a buccaneer."

      Blake laughed. "Have you looked at yourself recently? Not exactly the respectable alpha grade." He paused to study Avon, and found himself really looking at the other man for the first time. Avon had changed a lot over the last year and Blake hadn't consciously noticed. Changing from the plain drab clothes he had worn when he first came on board  _Liberator_ , Avon had developed an impeccable sense of style. What he wore now suited him well, very well indeed. The clothes drew the eye, but Avon himself was well worth looking at. The easy stance, the relaxed smile with its hint of mockery, the dark eyes casually watching him. Blake realized with a sudden sense of shock that his reaction to Avon was on more than one level.

      Avon was looking at him, waiting for Blake to continue.

      "Do you realize what those clothes do for you?" It wasn't what Blake had intended to say, the words came out of their own accord.

      "No, but you're obviously going to tell me."

      The words Blake wanted to say dried in his throat. Avon was still watching him with that same easy look that could be saying anything. If he knew what Blake was thinking, he gave no sign of it. If Blake wanted anything more, he would have to make the opening move.

      "Avon have you ever..." That was as far as he got before Zen interrupted.

      +Information. Four pursuit ships registering on forward detectors.+

      "Damn!" Blake smashed his hand down on the console.

      Avon observed him quietly for a moment, and then left to rouse the others for the forthcoming fight.

      

      

> In Debtor's Yard the stones are hard,
> 
>       And the dripping wall is high,
> 
>       So it was there he took the air
> 
>       Beneath the leaden sky,
> 
>       And by each side a warder walked
> 
>       For fear the man might die.
> 
>       
> 
>       Or else he sat with those who watched
> 
>       His anguish night and day;
> 
>       Who watched him when he rose to weep,
> 
>       And when he crouched to pray;
> 
>       Who watched him less himself should rob
> 
>       Their scaffold of its prey.

      

Six interminable hours later the battle was over. Two pursuit ships would never venture into space again, and one was badly damaged. The  _Liberator_  herself had not escaped unscathed. Blake watched Avon as he studied the damage reports, uncertain as to whether he was relieved or disappointed by the turn of events. Perhaps it was best this way. Avon would never have accepted him, and his reaction to being propositioned could easily have shattered their fragile working relationship.

      "Blake?'

      "What is it?"

      "There's a problem in Subcontrol Two. I could use some help."

      Why not? He was no longer needed on the flight deck. It was Jenna's watch now. He might as well make himself useful with the repairs. The autorepair systems were very methodical, a bit of human assistance in the right place could sometimes make a lot of difference.

      

>       So it lay that every day
> 
>       Crawled like a weed clogged wave:
> 
>       And we forgot the bitter lot
> 
>       That waits for fool and knave,
> 
>       Till once, as we tramped in from work,
> 
>       We passed an open grave.

      

The subcontrol room always seemed more alien to Blake than the rest of the  _Liberator_. Somehow the serried ranks of computer equipment and anonymous controls seemed to belong to some inhuman race that understood computers, lived with them as equals. Avon appeared totally unfazed by it all. He unclipped a low level access panel below a console whose sole controls appeared to consist of two slide bars of totally indeterminate purpose.

      "Down here," Avon indicated. "If you take the left hand side, I'll take the right. There's some wiring needs replacing." He stuck his head and shoulders under the console, stretched out on the floor and began working on something out of Blake's sight.

      Space was horribly limited, but they should both be able to work at once. Blake squeezed in beside Avon, all too aware of the other man's proximity. The damage seemed pretty minimal, Blake replaced a few wires, fixed some loose connections and wriggled around to face Avon. "You don't need me," Blake accused. "You could have fixed this on your own."

      Avon placed his tools carefully behind his head. "Let me be the judge of what I need," he said quietly. "I believed there was something you wished to discuss with me. Or had you forgotten?" Avon's tone was indifferent, but his voice stirred something deep within Blake. A hope, an uncertainty, a touch of fear. A step that if taken, could not be undone.

      This close to Avon, Blake could see every pore on the other man's face, every crease in his skin. He could smell Avon's sweat, feel the heat of his breath. Still Blake hesitated. In the dim light under the console, Avon's hair and eyes seemed black, his expression unreadable.

      You can't commit yourself, an inner voice screamed at Blake. He'll laugh at you. He'll use it against you. Go take a cold shower instead, forget anything ever happened. This is something you need to think about. And if the opportunity never arises again? he asked back. Then so be it, his inner self replied.

      Avon stirred beside him. "I'd better check the damage to the force wall generator."

      "No!" Blake hadn't meant to say it, but the word had come out anyway.

      "What do you want, then?"

      Blake faced stark reality in the form of the man next to him. A man of complex contradictions. A man who argued with him even as he saved his life. An underhanded, devious embezzler whom he'd slowly come to trust. 

      "I want you." Blake's voice sounded unnaturally high.

      He waited for Avon's scathing comment, but it never came. Neither moved for a moment, then, by slow mutual consent, they came together, lips meeting in an exploratory kiss.

      

      

> With yawning mouth the yellow hole
> 
>       Gaped for a living thing;
> 
>       The very mud cried out for blood
> 
>       To the thirsty asphalt ring:
> 
>       And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
> 
>       Some prisoner had to swing.
> 
>       

Blake looked around his cabin. It wasn't as if Avon had never been here before, it was just that everything seemed different somehow now that he'd invited Avon here for a different reason. Blake was acutely aware that the place was in a mess. He'd meant to clear away the empty coffee cups, the abandoned chess game from three days ago, the piles of discarded computer printout. It was just that he never seemed to have the time to get around to it.

      Feeling vaguely embarrassed, Blake ran his fingers through his hair, aware as he did so of the sticky residue from the coffee. He still hadn't had a chance to change his clothes, and he suddenly felt acutely conscious about his appearance.

      "Avon, I need a shower. Do you mind? Help yourself to a drink. I won't be long."

      Avon looked at him with amusement. "Serves you right for taking so much sugar in your coffee. Go ahead - I can wait."

      Blake exited into the bathroom and undressed himself. He still wasn't sure how the rest of the evening was going to progress. It was a bit difficult to ask Avon outright how far he was prepared to go. But he was here, and that was what mattered. Blake turned on the shower and stepped in, feeling the harsh spray of the water against his skin; the hiss of the shower drowning out the ever present background noise of the  _Liberator'_ s engines. He ducked his head to let the water run through his hair, and reached out for the shampoo. Squeezing an ample quantity onto his hand, he rubbed it into his hair, working it well into the roots. He could feel the froth under his fingers, turning his hair into white foam.

      Hands were on his shoulders, slippery with soap, kneading muscles fatigued from the tension of the battle. "I thought I'd join you," Avon's voice said in his ear.

      Blake relaxed back into the massage, letting his hands fall by his side, allowing the steady rain of the shower rinse out the shampoo. Avon's fingers slid up his neck, rubbing spots that he hadn't even realised were aching. Still, Blake didn't turn around, enjoying his present position, allowing himself the pleasure of anticipation. Feeling his hair teased out, and the curls untangled, he winced slightly as a knot was pulled out. Avon kissed the back of his neck gently by way of apology, and Blake could hold out no longer.

      Turning, he pulled Avon into a full embrace, feeling their bodies pressed against one another, the hot water streaming down his back. Avon's skin was warm against him, his body firm. Slicking his hands with soap, Blake caressed his companion's back, feeling the muscles under the skin, allowing his hands to slip down to squeeze Avon's buttocks for a moment. Avon pressed hard against him, then commenced his own exploration, allowing hands rather than eyes to reveal Blake to him.

      Slowly they discovered one another, the pretence of the wash allowing them intimacy without embarrassment. It was a relaxed encounter which Blake found he enjoyed: sexual, but not intensely so. The hair on Avon's chest seemed to beg for play. Blake used the shampoo to idly froth it into patterns, tracing designs there until Avon washed them out by readjusting the shower head. For a minute or so, they fought each other for control of the spray, water splashing in every direction, until laughing, Avon stepped out of the shower to avoid being squirted yet again.

      Blake turned off the shower with mild regret and looked at Avon, standing wet and waiting on the carpet. His pose seemed as old as mankind: weight on his right leg, the other slightly bent, right hand on hip, head held high. Blake felt the desire race through him, sending a jolt straight to his genitals. He knew Avon was teasing him, knew from Avon's quiet smile of triumph that he was enjoying Blake's clearly visible, physical reaction.

      "Just how badly do you want me, Blake?" he inquired softly. "How badly?"

      Sanity returned like a dash of cold water. The ground rules for this game had to be established now. "Very badly," Blake replied truthfully. "But not enough to change anything between us. If we do this, life will carry on as before. I'll still argue with you. I'll still expect you to follow my orders. Either you do this because you want to, or we don't do it at all."

      Avon looked regretful for a moment, then bowed his head a fraction in acknowledgement. "Honest at least." He pulled a towel off the rail and tossed it to Blake. "Dry me," he suggested.

      Blake knew an invitation when he saw one. It was going to be an interesting night after all.

      

      

> Right in we went, with soul intent
> 
>       On Death and Dread and Doom:
> 
>       The hangman with his little bag,
> 
>       Went shuffling through the gloom:
> 
>       And I trembled as I groped my way
> 
>       Into my numbered tomb.

      

It hasn't seemed real until now. I always knew they would kill him, but somehow, deep down, I had always expected Avon to have a way out. Some plan so obvious that no one else had seen it. Avon always got away. Other people died: at Central Control, on Terminal, on Gauda Prime, but Avon was always the survivor. Now that I know he's really going to die, I discover I don't want revenge for Malodaar any more.

      

>       But there is no sleep when men must weep
> 
>       Who never yet have wept:
> 
>       So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -
> 
>       That endless vigil kept,
> 
>       And through each brain on hands of pain
> 
>       Another's terror crept.

      

      

> Alas it is a fearful thing
> 
>       To feel another's guilt!
> 
>       For, right within, the Sword of Sin
> 
>       Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
> 
>       As molten lead were the tears we shed
> 
>       For the blood we had not spilt.

      

Sitting here, awake, I have too much time to think. How did Avon feel when he realized that Blake was dead? I never saw his face, but the way he stood - frozen to the spot... Avon who once claimed that he didn't know the meaning of guilt.

      I feel it myself now. I can imagine myself there, looking down on Blake's body. It's easy for me to say that I wouldn't have done the same - I wouldn't. But in Avon's shoes? He felt more deeply and showed it less than any of us.

      

      

> We waited for the stroke of eight:
> 
>       Each tongue was thick with thirst:
> 
>       For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
> 
>       That makes a man accursed,
> 
>       And fate will use a running noose,
> 
>       For the best man and the worst.
> 
>       
> 
>       With sudden shock the prison-clock
> 
>       Smote on the shivering air,
> 
>       And from all the gaol arose a wail
> 
>       Of impotent despair,
> 
>       Like the sound that frightened marches hear
> 
>       From some leper in his lair.
> 
>       
> 
>       And as one sees most fearful things
> 
>       In the crystal of a dream,
> 
>       We saw the greasy hempen rope
> 
>       Hooked to the blackened beam,
> 
>       And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
> 
>       Strangled into a scream.
> 
>       
> 
>       And all that woe that moved him so
> 
>       That he gave that bitter cry,
> 
>       And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
> 
>       Nobody knew so well as I:
> 
>       For he who lives more lives than one
> 
>       More deaths than one must die.
> 
>       

      

They lay together in the half light, passion finally spent. Blake held Avon loosely in his arms, still feeling a quiet glow of contentment. Idly, he stroked Avon's hair, still slightly damp, but with occasional tendrils breaking free to drift on their own.

      Avon stiffened abruptly. "Don't do that."

      Blake stopped. "Why ever not?"

      "It reminds me of things I'd rather not remember right now."

      "Anna?" asked Blake softly, wanting to understand.

      "I don't want to talk about it."

      "You must have loved her very much." Blake felt a twinge of jealousy, not of Anna, but of Avon. There were no deep love affairs in his own memory. Had he been too dedicated to the cause to have time for women, or had the Federation simply erased that from his mind along with so much else?

      Avon rolled away from him to face the wall. "I shouldn't be here," he said roughly.

      Blake reached out a hand to rest on Avon's shoulder. "You're not betraying her by being with me. She'd have wanted you to find love again."

      "What do you know about love?" Avon said bitterly. "Do you imagine I love you?" He sat up and looked around for his clothes. "I would have died for Anna. She was everything I ever wanted." The words were harsh, forced out with difficulty.

      Blake felt the pain: both Avon's pain at remembering, and his own pain at Avon's rejection of him. He watched in silence as Avon pulled his trousers on. He wanted some way to breach the barrier that had suddenly arisen once more between them. The memory of Avon's lips on his, of their bodies intertwined, was still too recent. "What went wrong?" he asked sadly.

      Avon misunderstood the question. "I wasn't there when she needed me," he replied shortly.

      Guilt then. Not an emotion that he'd thought of associating with Avon. There was so much that he didn't know about him. So much that he wanted to know.

      Avon slid his arms inside his tunic and pulled it over his head. With no further comment he made for the door to the corridor. It was too much. Blake couldn't let him go like that: he owed Avon too much. "Avon," he said softly.

      Avon turned to look at him, his face unreadable.

      "You've always been there when I've needed you."

      For an instant the mask vanished. He looked deep into Avon's soul. Then Avon blinked. The moment was gone and Avon with it.

      

      

> They hanged him as a beast is hanged!
> 
>       They did not even toll
> 
>       A requiem that might have brought
> 
>       Rest to his startled soul,
> 
>       But hurriedly they took him out,
> 
>       And hid him in a hole.
> 
>       
> 
>       The warders stripped him of his clothes,
> 
>       And gave him to the flies:
> 
>       They mocked the swollen purple throat,
> 
>       And the stark and staring eyes:
> 
>       And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
> 
>       In which the convict lies.

      

What were Avon and Blake to one another? I never really understood the relationship between them. Sometimes I think they hated each other, certainly they were forever at each other's throats. Yet each had an almost intuitive understanding where the other was concerned. They fought, they argued, but they stayed together until the war separated them.

      Whether they admitted it or not, I think they loved one another.

      They were my friends.

      

      

> In Reading gaol by Reading town
> 
>       There is a pit of shame,
> 
>       And in it lies a wretched man
> 
>       Eaten by teeth of flame,
> 
>       In a burning winding sheet he lies,
> 
>       And his grave has got no name.
> 
>       
> 
>       And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
> 
>       In silence let him lie:
> 
>       No need to waste the foolish tear,
> 
>       Or heave the windy sigh:
> 
>       The man had killed the thing he loved,
> 
>       And so he had to die.
> 
>       
> 
>       And all men kill the thing they love,
> 
>       By all let this be heard,
> 
>       Some do it with a bitter look,
> 
>       Some with a flattering word,
> 
>       The coward does it with a kiss,
> 
>       The brave man with a sword.
> 
>       

      

I said before that the poem was Avon. Funny really, you can lie to yourself and even believe it for a while. Now Avon's dead, I can't avoid the truth any longer. The poem is me.

      I'll never be able to tell Avon that I loved him, because until now, I never realised it myself.


End file.
